


Lacuna

by GallantGeekery



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 01:11:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9357920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallantGeekery/pseuds/GallantGeekery
Summary: There are words unsaid, truths untold. (A collection of scenes that feel the way I wish the Sherlock finale had felt)





	1. Chapter 1

Author’s Note: The Final Problem made me sad, so I wrote a scene that makes me happy. <3 Find me on Twitter @tvislit.

"Lacuna": noun; An unfilled space; a gap.

In the aftermath of it all — Mary’s death, Culverton’s attacks, Eurus’ reign of terror — John does his best to return to life as he once knew it. He goes back to Baker Street. He moves back in and brings Rosie. She and John share his old room, and Sherlock goes back to picking up routine cases. Things are cozy and comfortable and oddly domestic. John, Sherlock, and Rosie are a family, in their own way, and they live in as much harmony as is possible with Sherlock Holmes.

Life is good, but there’s something missing, a gaping hole that John can’t quite put his finger on. There are words unsaid, truths untold. Something feels decidedly unfinished, and it weighs on John like an anvil, distracting him and clouding up his mind until it’s all he can do not to shout with frustration. But he doesn’t, and it isn’t until John and Sherlock are standing in the hallway after a case that John finally comes to terms with what’s missing in his life.

With Rosie safe in Mrs. Hudson’s care, John had accompanied Sherlock to a particularly bloody crime scene. It was the kind of case Sherlock (and John, if he’s being honest) lived for, twisting and confusing, incredibly dangerous. The murderer, an unhinged ex-police officer named Joshua, had hit John in the head with a baseball bat when they’d confronted him. It was a forceful swing, and John had fallen immediately to the ground upon contact, his head spinning and his vision flickering in and out. When John had woken up, Joshua was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock was standing over him, his eyes wide and manic as he called out John’s name over and over again. Sherlock’s hands cradled John’s face and his grasp was desperate and firm. John wasn’t sure he’d ever seen the man so frantic. He’d sat up slowly, rubbing his head and assuring Sherlock that he was okay, but Sherlock was visibly shaken and he’d been uncharacteristically quiet for the rest of the night.

Standing in the hallway outside the flat, with the dim lighting casting dancing shadows over Sherlock’s angular features, John puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Sherlock, look at me.”

Sherlock looks up at John, his eyes searching his face, analyzing every inch of it. “I am fine,” John says, his voice soft. 

Sherlock nods. “Yes… Yes, I know.” He casts a glance at John’s hand on his shoulder, and suddenly John feels uncomfortable with their closeness. He pulls his hand away, runs it over his mouth, and looks down at the ground, breaking the eye contact with Sherlock that’s making him feel increasingly raw and vulnerable. 

He looks up again when he feels a soft touch on the side of his head. Sherlock has reached out to him, has placed his hand on the place where he was hit. He doesn’t say a word. Just runs his thumb in careful circles over the pronounced bump that the baseball bat raised. Sherlock’s movements are so careful and intimate, so tender and hesitant that John finds himself leaning into the touch.

“Sherlock,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

And then, without giving it much thought at all, John steps up to Sherlock and presses a soft kiss to his lips.

For a moment, Sherlock doesn’t respond. His hand is still pressed to John’s head, but he’s frozen, as if the press of John’s lips has short-circuited his wiring. But then his hand is moving to the back of John’s neck and he’s pulling him closer, kissing him deeper and deeper until John’s head is swimming and it’s all he can do to keep his knees from buckling.

John has never been kissed like this. Like he’s the air Sherlock needs to breathe. Like he’s his whole world. He feels like top spinning on the edge of a glass table, threatening to topple to the ground, quivering as he whirls round and round. Maybe it’s because of his recent head injury, but John finds himself clutching Sherlock around his waist. It’s partly because he wants him closer, and partly because he’s afraid he’ll crumple to the ground without a bit of support. 

When John finally pulls away to breathe, Sherlock’s expression stuns him. He looks small and afraid, like a child waiting to be scolded.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says as he steps, shaking and breathing heavily, away from John. “John, I shouldn’t have…”

“Don’t be an idiot, Sherlock. I kissed you.”

“Yes, but you’re not—”

“Gay? Who gives a flying fuck? Maybe I am. I don’t know,” John says. Because god, he has had this crisis already. He’s been through it, and he’s done worrying. “Gay, not gay… Labels. Just labels, Sherlock. They aren’t what matters. What matters is, well… you. You are what matters.”

John feels blood rush to his cheeks as he blushes crimson. He hadn’t meant to sound so sappy, but he’s finding that when it comes to Sherlock, the line between honesty and sentimentality is quite blurred these days.

“John,” Sherlock says, his voice breaking slightly and betraying the emotions he usually tries so hard to suppress. “I don’t know how to do this.” He motions between John and himself. “I want to, but I don’t know how. I never have.”

“Always bloody overthinking,” John says. “We’ve been doing this for years. It’s just now I get to kiss you from time to time.”

Sherlock smiles, radiant and utterly beautiful, and John fights the urge to kiss him again right then and there.

“You’re quite a good kisser,” he says instead, because he’s been thinking it, and he thinks Sherlock ought to know.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up in a slight smirk, but he tries to look unfazed. He arches an eyebrow. “I’m good at everything.”

John snorts and opens the door to 221B. “Get in here then, you. Rosie’s with Mrs. Hudson for another hour or so.”

Sherlock follows him.

As John closes the door behind them, he finds himself feeling brighter than he’s felt in years. Something had been missing, and he thinks he’s discovered just what it was.  



	2. First Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like this fic is officially an ongoing series of me trying to make myself feel better after The Final Problem.

It’s been nearly a year since John moved back into Baker Street, and it’s been good. Sherlock and John still take cases, though they try not to be as reckless as they once were. Rosie sleeps in a crib in the corner of John’s room. Soon she’ll need more space, but they don’t talk about that. Sherlock ends up being quite wonderful with Rosie. He does as much for her as John does, and John is constantly surprised by just how caring Sherlock can be. When he first met this brilliant enigmatic man, he might not have thought it possible. Life is simpler than it was before, and John and Sherlock are both content with their new realities. They don’t talk much about the past. About Mary or Moriarty or Eurus. There is so, so much that they don’t talk about.

In the end, it’s Rosie who forces John and Sherlock to have the conversation they’ve been dancing around for years. It’s a Sunday afternoon and John’s sprawled on a blanket on the ground beside his daughter, who’s crawling happily around the room. Sherlock is reading in his armchair. All is quiet and comfortable, as it often is these days at Baker Street. The only sounds in the room come from Rosie’s occasional happy cooing and the swift turning of the pages as Sherlock tears through his book. Rosie’s older now — not fully saying words yet, but getting very, very close.

John holds a stuffed giraffe in front of her, making it gallop across the ground. Rosie giggles and grabs for the giraffe. She pulls it close in an embrace and then holds it up to Sherlock, who doesn’t look away from his book.

Rosie, who’s growing into quite the tenacious child, crawls toward Sherlock with the giraffe in hand. She pulls herself up by his pants leg, but he still barely glances at her.

She babbles a bit of nonsense in frustration. And then, as clear as a bell, while looking straight at Sherlock, Rosie says, “dada!”

Sherlock snaps up from his book. John can’t fully stifle his gasp.

“Her first word,” John says, after a moment of heavy silence. 

Sherlock still hasn’t said a thing, but he’s staring at Rosie with wide eyes. After a moment, he starts rambling like his life depends on it.

“John,” he says finally. “Children are notoriously simple creatures. “Mama” or, in this case “dada”, feature repetitive sounds. Easy to pronounce. Language has made it nearly impossible for children to say anything other than “mama” or “dada” as their first words. She is doing as all children do, as basic linguistics leads them to do. And she happened to be facing me. So you see, there’s absolutely no sentiment in Rosie’s behavior.”

John looks blankly at Sherlock for a long time before he can stand it no more. His stoic expression blooms into a smirk, a smile, a bright grin, and suddenly he’s doubling over laughing. 

Sherlock clearly doesn’t know how to respond to John’s response. He reaches down and picks Rosie up from the ground.

“Dada,” she says again, happily.

“No,” Sherlock says, his voice stern. He points at John. “That is your Dada. Not me.”

John’s stopped laughing now. There are tears in the corner of his eyes. He wipes them away and smiles at Sherlock and Rosie.

“It’s fine, Sherlock,” he says. “Let her say what she likes.”

“John, she’s confused. We should reprimand and retrain her behavior now, while she’s young.”

“Reprimand and retrain? She’s a child. Not a dog.”

Hurt flashes briefly through Sherlock’s eyes and John softens. “ We don’t need to ‘reprimand and retrain’, Sherlock, because you’re her father as much as I am.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to argue but John presses on.

“You feed her. You stay up all night taking care of her.” 

“I stay up all night anyway.”

“Not the point. You do so much for her. You love her, Sherlock… and she loves you.”

It’s very rare that Sherlock Holmes is left with nothing to say, but this seems to be one of those instances. He looks from John to Rosie, who’s looking up at him with large adoring eyes.

“I do love her,” Sherlock says, gazing down at Rosie. He looks back to John. “I suppose I must love you too. It seems the only reasonable explanation.”

After everything he and Sherlock had been through, John had always expected that the culmination of their feelings for each other would be a far more theatrical affair. He’d assumed it would be sensational, or urgent, perhaps urged on by the looming threat of death. But this… this he hadn’t expected.

“I love you too,” John says casually, like he’s said it a thousand times before. Because he has, really. Even though he’s never uttered these precise words.

Sherlock smiles and John shifts closer to him. Rosie coos with glee.

“Dada,” she pipes up. This time, she’s looking squarely at John.

John feels his eyes well up. “Sentiment,” he says, shaking his head.

"Yes, but still quite nice," Sherlock says.

And so in the end, when John and Sherlock finally acknowledge their feelings for each other, it isn’t dramatic at all. It isn’t passionate or explosive or desperate. That part of their lives is largely behind them. Instead, John simply reaches for Sherlock’s hand, Sherlock shifts the baby from one arm to the other in order to meet his reach, and they hold on tight.


End file.
